He appeared to have gone to the market the day before, and she inhaled the smells of foods she could not consume—figs and pomegranates, fresh berries and coconut milk. She was satisfied with the smell alone.She thought that the figs—dark-red, almost purple—looked like tiny hearts, and the juice of the pomegranates was the color of human blood. She had no instruments, but in the kitchen she mashed the fig pulp awkwardly with her fingers, whispering the secret words she had learned from Ogdela—the words, Ogdela insisted, that could heal the heart of the world if only said right and with enough conviction. She poured the pomegranate juice over the red pulp when Loharri, still half-asleep, stumbled into the kitchen.“Something smells good,” he said, his voice still hoarse from sleep.Mattie nodded. She liked the smell of people right after they slept—it was a warm, musky smell that made her feel at home and at peace. “How much damage did they do?”Loharri shrugged and scooped a blob of fig and pomegranate mix with his fingers.
